


All the Long Years

by nigeltde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Unrequited, season 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25728142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: Nothing changes
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 36
Kudos: 75





	All the Long Years

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to [zmediaoutlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride).

They clatter down the stairs jostling arm against arm and equally filthy, Sam mostly with dirt, his brother festooned with all kinds of viscera and hating it, hating it so deeply Sam can't help but laugh, his tragic face and the disgusted way he holds his hand apart from his body like it betrayed him. He's always been like this. A bucket of blood, no biggie; a touch of slime and it's the end of everything.

"There's not gonna be enough water in Kansas," Dean moans, down on the map room floor as Sam unloads his pockets onto the table, sheds his jacket and shakes it out, dirt flying. "Hey! Man, you couldn't have done that outside?"

"I'll clean it, I'll clean it," Sam grins. "Go have your shower."

"You're not coming?"

"I wanna sort this out."

"Suit yourself, Joe Dirt." Dean tugs his collar away from his chest and sniffs; recoils, grey-faced. "And then I'm opening the good stuff. Don't think I don't know where you hid it."

"You deserve it," Sam says, poking through the runes and bones on the table, and Dean looks him up and down, purses his lips to hide a smile. Shrugs, offhand.

"Had some help," he says, lofty, like two hours ago he hadn't hauled himself out from under a pile of guts and and raised his arms and crowed _Machete 1, Lore 0_ , the full moon lighting him up like the only alive person left in the world. Sam had laughed and rolled his eyes, picked up his magics and followed his brother back to the car with the glow of a win bright and benevolent inside him.

He scrubs through his hair as Dean leaves. Another fine shower of dust hits the table, and he sweeps it away, pulls his notebook to scribble a few details while they're fresh. In the kitchen he sucks down a glass of water and washes his face, and then goes looking for his brother through the dormant rooms and halls. At some point the bunker became theirs again. The dead dead, the rest dissolved into their roving ways. Sam cares even less than he expected to, reset back into the steady rolling days of research, hunt, recovery. Back to the way it was meant to be.

In the hallway he sees his own door cracked open, leaking amber light, and pushes it wide. Dean's at Sam's desk, his back to Sam, his hair dark and damp, in his sweats and a t-shirt, bottle next to his elbow and his head bowed down, attention stuck on something.

"There you are," Sam says. "You found it?"

"Yeah," Dean says, distracted. Sam steps inside and sees his memory box. 

Dean's unearthed the lot: the fake amulet, the brochure for Oak Park, the cards, the trinkets. Sam's treasures, everything they built together, all the long years. The photos. He has a few in his hands, flipping through. Pauses on one and stares: it's them, still kids really, a lifetime ago; the aftermath of some squabble at Bobby's house, Dean dragging him in from the stacks. They're smeared and tumbled with junkyard mud. Filthy again. Sam smiles.

"I remember this," Dean says slowly. Turns it over to read the date. "Oh, wow."

"Bobby cussed us up and down," Sam says. Still took the photo, though. Still had it in his wallet when Sam emptied his pockets that last time.

"Handed me a hose and banished us," Dean murmurs. "You were--" He presses his lips closed, shadow curling in the corner. His lashes flicker. In the photo, Dean has him in a headlock and he's grinning where Dean can't see, doubled over and caught in the crook of his elbow. Dean is in their father's jacket. He looks happy. 

The part of Sam that's always keyed to his brother wakes up and curls uneasy.

"Lucky it was summer," he says; hesitates, sucks his cheek between his teeth.

Dean hums, noncommittal. Smooths his thumb across their faces, chest rising shallow, irregular. "You kept it."

"It was a good day." Sam's heart sinks. It's not like that, he wants to say. I kept it because it's us. It means a lot to me.

His throat hurts. He can't. All this time. He's never known how to.

"Sometimes I wonder if there's a way it could be better," Dean says, quiet, down at the photo. He flicks a glance at Sam, too fast for Sam to read, fast enough to catch Sam's face fall. His cheeks go red, his ears. The photo trembles.

"Come have a drink with me," Sam says, heartsore, curling his hand into a fist so he doesn't lay it on Dean's shoulder. Dean swallows, his throat dipping hard. "Come on."

Dean nods, stiff, repacks the box, coiling the amulet thong, setting the tarot neat against the medal case, tucking the Zippo in the corner. He squares the photographs and stacks them, with the brochure, on top. Shuts the lid, pushes the box to the back of the desk; draws in a deep breath and lifts his chin, his shoulders straight.

Faces Sam proper, and softens, tilts his head. 

"Look at you," he says, dry, and before Sam can turn to the mirror raises his hand and rubs his thumb along Sam's hairline. He's focused and golden and close enough that Sam can study the creases lining out from his eyes, his freckles. He's never not been beautiful, even Sam can tell that.

"Can't take me anywhere," Sam says, still heavy, trying to hold his breath in, and Dean crooks a smile.

"Yeah, nothing changes," he says, gaze drifting back to the blank wall behind and his hand drops to Sam's shoulder and he squeezes impersonal and turns, that part of him closed away and gone. Grabs the bottle and waves it and says, "All right, Sammy," as he leaves. Sam follows.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable tumblr post](https://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/625715109783814145/all-the-long-years) for those so inclined. 
> 
> feedback/concrit welcome


End file.
